


A Place to Roost

by chaoticTransmissions



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Angst, BAMF Stiles, Denial of Feelings, Druid Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nemeton, Pack Bonding, Pack Feels, Past Child Abuse, but it's only mentioned in one scene, everyone deserves good things and gets them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTransmissions/pseuds/chaoticTransmissions
Summary: Ever since his mother died, Stiles Stilinski has been on the road. He drifts across the country, a wandering druid in search of his next adventure. No matter where he goes, Stiles never stays. But when a strange magic summons Stiles to the city of Beacon Hills, he finds himself tangled up in the lives of the Hale werewolf pack. His stay is only supposed to be temporary, but as Stiles grows closer to the pack and its charming alpha, Derek Hale, Stiles must decide once and for all where he truly belongs.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 782





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a one shot oops, but I've spent the last week in a writing coma working on this so i decided to just post all five chapters at once. I put my heart and soul into this one, so if you like it let me know in the comments <3

_“_ _The Himalayan legend says_

_there are beautiful white birds_

_that live completely in flight._

_They are born in the air,_

_must learn to fly before falling_

_and die also in their flying._

_Maybe you have been born_

_into such a life_

_with the bottom dropping out.”_

_-In Flight by Jennifer K Sweeny_

Mieczysław Stilinski doesn’t mean to end up in Beacon Hills. Truthfully, he doesn’t mean to ever end up anywhere.

His is a nomadic life, wandering across the country in search of knowledge and mystery. He hunts cold cases sometimes, stories of murders, theft, or abductions too strange to be committed by human hands. He seeks out places hidden and haunted, raids antique shops for ‘gimmick’ spell books that the store clerks don’t realize are actually bound in enchanted leather and “walking sticks” that are actually sorcerer's staves sealed with dragon oil. Over the seven years he’s been traveling, Mieczysław had amassed quite the collection.

(He goes by Stiles to the librarians, gas station clerks, and occasional criminals that make up his daily interactions. His true name is an old one, heavy with the power of his druidic line. Seven generations of magic users, on his mother’s side. Stiles knows better than to give anyone his real name. He won’t risk the binding that comes along with that knowledge.) 

Stiles isn’t sure what to do with all the things he’s collected. Some of it he uses, some of it he doesn’t. The latter category ends up shoved in the trunk of his trusty Jeep, or in the basement of his father’s house, or sometimes buried under obelisks in the mountains that Stiles swears he’ll return to one day.

Eventually, Stiles would like to open a shop to sell it all. If he could get the word out to the right collectors, the sale of even a few of his pieces could set Stiles up for life. Then he’d be able to make sure his dad was taken care of, and eat something other than curly fries and gas station burritos for every meal. The problem is that a store requires him to stay still, to settle in one place. And Stiles wasn’t built to stay.

His mother had called Stiles her “mały ptak”, her little bird. “Druids are supposed to be homebodies, you know,” she’d whispered to him one day, as they laid together in her hospital bed. “We find those who are lost and we become their refuge.” Stiles knew she’d done just that for his father. “But you, my son, your heart is like a bird, always dreaming of the next horizon.”

She’d always told Stiles stories of swifts; birds that spent most of their lives in flight, more than any other bird. “They even sleep while they’re flying, Mieczysław,” she’d whisper while tucking him in. “Some fly for _ten months_ straight.”

“Don’t they get tired?” Stiles would whisper, and she’d look at him with big, sad eyes and never answer. In the hospital, Stiles buried his small face into her neck, searching for the comforting smell of perfume and morning coffee beneath the smell of antiseptic. “I’m going to bring you with me, mom,” Stiles whispered to her. “I’ll take you to see the world.”

“Oh, Mieczysław,” she whispered. “When I held you in my arms as a baby, you were already beginning to fly away from me. I know you’ll find your place to roost one day, darling. You just have to open your heart to it.”

“I won’t fly away,” Stiles promised, clutching her hand around the IV needle. “I promise I’ll never leave you.” And he had kept his promise, because it had been her who _left_ _him_ in the end, taken by cancer, a beast not even magic could slay. Stiles was only eleven and spent the next seven years trying to fix his father’s broken heart. The day after his eighteenth birthday, he’d gotten in his Jeep and just drove. 

Although Stiles visited his father three times a year and Facetimed him every week to remind him to take his medication or to lay off the red meat, Stiles knew the little cottage on the hill wasn’t his home anymore. The truth was, as much as his father loved him and would welcome him with open arms, Stiles could never move back to his childhood home. There was too much grief there. 

There had been places that had tempted Stiles to stay. The Druidic temple in Minnesota, run by a doctor named Deaton who’d treated Stiles after he’d been attacked by a wendigo. Stiles had stayed there for several months before the road called to him again. Then there was the coven of witches Stiles temporarily joined, helping them and their town recover from a deadly hurricane.

Finally, his childhood best friend Scott, his wife Allison, and their brood of kids. Alison’s family, previously hunters, now ran a witness protection program of sorts for supernatural and magically gifted adults and children who had been abused or abandoned because of their gifts. Stiles stayed with the Argent-McCall’s for almost a year, helping them track down abusers and even bringing his father (who was the Sheriff of the small town Stiles and Scott grew up in) in as a law enforcement consultant on a few cases. 

But even though the work was rewarding and Scott was his best friend, the day came when Stiles knew he had to move on again. In the end, no matter how close he became to the people he met on the road or how much he liked the place he was in, Stiles could never stay. If there was truly a place where he was meant to “roost” as his mother claimed, Stiles had yet to find it. 

Stiles had been driving for three days without any plan or inclination of where the road was taking him, when he felt a sudden tug in his sternum. He was on a highway just past Sacramento. Another tug, more insistent, leading him toward the next exit. Stiles hesitated, felt the magic humming in his bones, and flipped on his turn signal. 

The path always seemed to know where to take him and Stiles could feel possibility thick in the air around him, like heat rising in the moments before an eruption of fire. Stiles rolled down his window, letting the salt of the California air coat his lungs. He looked at the city on the horizon, (Beacon Hills, according to the exit sign), and was startled by the amount of magic that pulsed from it. It called out to him like the glow of a lighthouse on a stormy shore. 

Stiles knew, as he always did when he arrived somewhere new, that this city on the coast had a purpose for him. He just didn’t know what that purpose was yet. Though Stiles hadn’t been searching for Beacon Hills, it seemed Beacon Hills had been searching for him.

\---

Stiles's first stop in town is at a diner, to get an actual meal and a bathroom break. He’s been driving for seven hours straight and had eaten nothing but trail mix and beef jerky for the last several days. Maybe it’s just the hunger speaking, but Stiles swears this is the best strawberry milkshake he’s ever had. While he eats, Stiles reaches his own magic out to the energy around him, trying to get a feel for what’s going on in this town. 

If it’s on top of one ley line, let alone several, Stiles can already guess that it’s rife with supernatural creatures. There are probably other magic users here as well. Beacon Hills is a fitting name indeed. A place like this is the magical equivalent of a signal flare. Stiles needs to be careful he doesn’t step on anyone’s toes. Or run into anything more dangerous than he can handle. 

The town’s magic ripples when Stiles touches it with his own and pushes almost curiously at him. Stiles frowned, pushing back in warning. The magic encircles him, pushing at his magical barriers, searching for a way in. It’s not malicious, magic rarely is, but it wants to claim him. To crawl inside him and absorb him and his magic into itself. Stiles lets his magic flair in warning, and the town backs off, going back to buzzing harmlessly along his skin. 

Stiles is dying to head for the town library and dig through the archives, or better yet, to seek out the Nemeton he knows must be at the heart of a magical epicenter like this, but the sun is sinking in the sky and prowling around an unfamiliar town at night isn’t the best idea. Besides, Stiles is practically swaying on his feet with exhaustion. He heads for a motel down the street and pays for a room. 

It’s not the nicest place he’s ever stayed, but not the worst either. Stiles forces himself to take a hot shower and put some wards up on the doors and windows before he collapses onto the bed and sleeps. In his dream, Stiles lays beneath the branches of a massive tree. The magic is so strong there that it’s practically tangible. This much magic should set him on edge, but it feels comforting, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Stiles knows instantly that this is a Nemeton, a place of immense power.

When he wakes up the next morning, Stiles feels like he slept for two days. He’s vibrating out of his skin with energy and he almost forgets to take his Adderall as he hurries out to his car. He knows now where the heart of the magic in Beacon Hills is. In the dream, he’d been in a forest, and after a quick google search, Stiles is willing to bet it’s the Beacon Hills Nature Preserve he’d seen on a brochure in the motel lobby. 

Stiles gets Siri to read an article about the preserve to him as he drives, and finds out that it’s over ten- thousand acres, with another ten- thousand acres of private property behind that. Searching that much land could take hours. Luckily, the Nemeton tree is still calling to him. If he just follows the magic, it will take him directly there. 

Stiles sighs, realizing he’d chosen jeans to wear this morning. Good for the November chill, but not the most practical choice for hiking. He doesn’t have a water bottle either. He doesn’t have much of anything, in truth. Just several suitcases full of clothes, toiletries, and magical artifacts in his trunk. His computer is sitting on the passenger seat. Being a wandering druid doesn’t exactly pay the bills, so Stiles makes most of his income writing freelance when he can find an Airbnb or coffee shop with Wifi to work out of. 

There are only a few cars in the preserve parking lot when Stiles arrives, probably because it’s ten AM on a Tuesday morning and normal people are at work and not wandering through the forest searching for a magical tree. Stiles grins, more glad than ever that he’s not ‘normal people’ and heads into the woods.

The magic is even stronger here and it curls around Stiles's ankles almost urgently. Setting off at a brisk pace, Stiles is surprised to find that the magic feels almost urgent as he walks farther into the forest. After half an hour of walking, Stiles reaches the end of the public preserve and the start of someone’s private property. A wooden fence and a giant red sign mark the end of the trial. Stiles throws the messenger bag he brought with him over the fence and then scales it himself, knowing it’s not nearly the worst thing he’s ever done. Not even close. The woods are denser here, more overgrown, and the foliage is alive with all manner of flora and fauna. The nemeton’s influence, no doubt. 

He’s only been walking for five minutes when the magic suddenly slams into his back, nearly knocking Stiles over. “Chill,” he tells the empty clearing. “I’m going!” Still, Stiles picks up his pace, practically jogging further into the preserve.

Something is wrong. This magic, with its strange intelligence, is trying to take him somewhere. And it wants him to hurry. If that wasn’t convincing enough, the faint whimpers he hears as he emerges into the next grotto definitely do the trick. The sound is unmistakably that of an animal in pain. Stiles might be an unconventional druid, but he’s a druid nonetheless, and he’s sworn to protect nature and all its inhabitants. 

The sound gets more heart wrenching as he gets closer and by the time he finds its source, Stiles is all but sprinting, going as fast as the uneven ground will allow. The cries are coming from a small grey wolf, twisting in the undergrowth. Stiles’s heart clenches as he realizes the wolf is a bit too small to be full grown. An older pup, then. 

The wolf turns Stiles as he enters the clearing, its ears twitching in alarm. It stops crying and lets out a low, warning growl. Its eyes, though clouded with pain, watch him with intelligence beyond what any animal should possess. “Are you a shifter?” Stiles whispers as he approaches slowly, trying to make himself as small looking as possible. The wolf’s eyes go wide and it snarls even louder. Stiles realizes his mistake. 

“I’m not a hunter,” Stiles says, putting his hands up to show he’s not carrying a weapon. “I’m a druid. I swear.” After a moment of scrutiny, the wolf relaxes again and gives him what must be a nod. Stiles draws closer. 

If there’s a shifter child out here, then there must be a werewolf pack somewhere in the area. Not entirely unexpected along a ley line. As he gets closer, Stiles can see the wolf’s predicament. The poor thing has their paw stuck in what appears to be a small bear trap. Luckily it hasn’t severed the limb, but if no one had found this pup for several hours, they might have very well lost the leg. 

“Poor kid,” he whispers. “I’m going to help you okay? I won’t hurt you.” When he’s sure the pup won’t bite his hand off, Stiles hovers his hands over the snare. “I’m going to use magic to pull the trap open. I need you to hold very still until I tell you to pull your leg out. If you move too soon, you could tear the wound and hurt yourself more, okay?” Stiles isn’t sure how old the child is, but he hopes they’re old enough to heed his directions. They can’t be too young, judging by the size of their wolf form. 

The pup does that strange, animal nod again and Stiles takes a breath. “Okay, I’m going to start now. Remember, hold still until I say to move.” Pulling the trap apart with magic is easy work, but Stiles does it slowly so he doesn’t risk tearing the wound open anymore. He can feel the magic in the forest hovering over him almost nervously. It’s concerned for this wolf pup, Stiles realizes. He’s encountered sentient magic, but this… this is unprecedented. 

There’s no time to think about the scholarly implications right now. All Stiles is focused on is helping this child. “Okay,” he says when the trap is pulled open. “You can move now.” 

Gently, he helps lift the leg out from the trap, then lets it snap shut when he and the werewolf’s limbs are safely free. The pup immediately begins to lick at the blood, and as little as Stiles knows about werewolves, he’s still pretty sure that the wound should be completely healed within the next two days. 

Stiles opens his mouth to say something else to the wolf club when the hair on the back of his neck stands on edge. Two low, menacing growls sound from a few yards behind him. More members of the pack, he realizes, who have just stumbled upon him standing over an injured cub. ‘Shit,’ Stiles thinks. ‘This probably doesn’t look good.’ He turns, slowly, his hands up. 

“I didn’t hurt the cub,” he says, facing the two werewolves. Shit, they’re big. The one on his left is brown with white patches around the eyes, and the other, slightly smaller wolf is an almost amber color. The wolves growl louder and Stiles takes a slow step away from the cub. “I’m not a hunter, I swear. I just found the kid snared and helped them get out.”

The smaller wolf takes a menacing step towards Stiles, who really doesn’t want to have to use magic on them when the wolf pup lets out a yip and limps to stand between Stiles and the other wolves. Stiles is both touched and immensely relieved. The two older wolves glance at one another, then begin to shift. The pup remains in wolf form, likely too hurt or too shocked to change back.

Stiles has seen a werewolf shift before-- his best friend Scott was turned when they were in high school and Stiles demanded to see him shift for research purposes-- but it’s just as confusing to watch every time. 

The shielding magic involved in the process makes it hard to reconcile what’s happening, even for a druid. Though he keeps his eyes on the pair, Stiles' mind can barely comprehend what he’s seeing as he’s seeing it. A blur, maybe, the shifting of limbs perhaps. When it’s over, Stiles can barely remember what he witnessed.

In human form, Stiles can tell that both of the shifters are young. The bigger wolf has turned into a curly-haired man with angular features and sharp eyes. He’s probably in his mid-twenties; around Stiles’s age. The other is a worried looking brunette, a woman around the same age as her companion. The man immediately goes to the pup, lifting her gently in his arms. Stiles backs up reflexively, his magic flaring at the threat of an angry werewolf so close to him. 

Both weres sniff the air inquisitively. The woman raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here, druid? This is Hale pack territory.” _Hale_. The name sounded familiar, but Stiles can’t place where from. He’ll ask Allison or Scott about it later. If he makes it out of her in one piece. The woman’s voice no longer carries an active threat, but warning still drips from every word. 

“It wasn’t my intention to intrude on your pack’s territory,” Stiles says. “Okay, I technically did deliberately ignore the no trespassing sign and climb your fence, but I didn’t know there was a wolf pack here.” Stiles realizes he isn’t helping his case and hurries on. 

“I felt the magic of this city from miles out. I just came here to research, that’s all. Last night I dreamt of a tree, a Nemeton, and it called to me. It led me to the child. I think it was worried about her. Is that possible? Does the magic here have feelings? Has anyone else noticed that? Anyway, I noticed the trap and opened it so the pup could get their foot out. I think the kid will be okay. Werewolf healing factor and all. I could, uh, potion it. I mean I could heal it… magically.” Stiles realizes he’s rambling, something he always does when he’s nervous, and shuts up. 

The two wolves exchange another coded look. Luckily, they should be able to hear Stiles’s heartbeat; should be able to smell that he’s being honest. “Come with us,” the male shifter says finally. “You need to speak with our Alpha and Cora needs medical care.” Cora, Stiles realizes, must be the pup. 

Well, it will delay his trip to the Nemeton, but seeing a pack settlement and speaking with a werewolf alpha sounds just as interesting. Besides, Stiles doesn’t think he has much of a choice. He’s on pack land, so shifter or not, he’s beholden to their laws. “Lead the way,” Stiles says.

He tries to keep his eyes strictly to the trees and the weres’ faces. Stiles knows shifters aren’t shy and admires their recognition of the fact that not all nudity is sexual, but still, he can’t help but feel awkward. “I’ll take my sister,” the younger were says, and the man transfers the wolf into her arms. Sisters, then. It's a good thing Stiles explained himself quickly. Being a threat to the pack is bad enough, but to a blood relation? Shifters have torn people apart for far less than that. 

The woman runs off into the trees, getting aid for Cora much faster than she would have been able to lugging Stiles and his human legs alongside her. The male wolf surveys Stiles with only mild interest before looking at the trap with disgust. “Poachers,” he snaps, then crumples the steel trap like paper in his hands. “Pack house is this way, let’s go.”

‘Well’, Stiles thinks, ‘this should be interesting.’


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles and the werewolf walk for several minutes in silence before the wolf says “my name is Isaac. Isaac Lahey.” Stiles shakes his hand and lets Isaac feel the magic humming in his palms. He doesn’t think there will be an issue at the pack house, but reminding them that a fight with a druid isn’t worth the trouble can’t hurt. Isaac grins in return, with just a hint of teeth. 

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles replies. 

“Stiles?” Isaac asks, grinning again. He doesn’t give Stiles a chance to reply. “Laura and I-- she’s the one who was with me-- we were on patrol when we heard Cora’s calls for help. I’m surprised you reached her before we did, but you said the Nemeton tree led you here?” 

“It’s been pulling me here for over an hour.” Stiles’s eyes widen. “The tree knew she would need help before she got stuck in the trap,” Stiles realizes, looking around at the forest with awe. Is it his imagination or did the breeze just pick up, ruffling his hair almost proudly?

“You think a tree can see the future?” Isaac snorts.

“Nemeta are places of tremendous magical power and this one is stronger than most. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Honestly, I have no idea what it’s capable of. It’s fascinating.” Stiles’s fingers _itched_ with the desire to start taking notes.

“Uh-huh,” Isaac mutters. “Not sure fascinating is the word I’d use. Creepy maybe. Regardless of how you got here, what you did for Cora is appreciated. You will be well compensated.”

Stiles waves his hands dismissively. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You protected one of our pups,” Isaac say, seriously. “That means a lot to a wolf. And we always pay our debts.” A shiver rolls through Stiles. He has the same sensation he’d felt yesterday when he saw the ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills’ sign cresting the hill above the city. The feeling of arriving somewhere destined for your footsteps. They walk in silence for fifteen minutes more until Stiles can see buildings through the trees and hear the distant sound of voices. A broad-shouldered man with a buzz cut and a kind face approaches them immediately when they stepped out onto the lawn. “Isaac.”

“Boyd.” The two men clasp hands. “How is Cora?”

“The doctor has already seen to her,” Boyd replies, giving Stiles a once over. “She’s a little shaken up, but she’ll be fine. We have patrols out looking for any more traps or signs of danger, but I don’t think hunters were involved.”

“I agree. Is Erica with them?” Isaac asks. Boyd smiles in a way that Stiles can only describe as ‘lovestruck’ and nods. “She’ll sniff out whatever idiot tried to poach on Hale land in no time," Isaac says. 

“That much I’m sure of,” Boyd agrees. He turns his gaze on Stiles again. “The alpha is waiting for you in his office.” Boyd claps Isaac on the shoulder. “I’ll get your report later.” With that, the wolf strides off toward the woods. 

“Erica is Boyd’s mate, and the best damn tracker we have,” Isaac explains, steering Stiles towards the massive house in front of them. He can see several other, smaller buildings farther back on the lawn, but this is clearly the main pack house. A few children are playing soccer in a patch of long grass by a driveway, which Stiles assumes goes out to the main road. Several adult wolves also mill around, not even pretending not to be staring at Stiles. 

“What will she do when she finds the poacher?” Stiles asks, curious. 

“Report him to the police,” Isaac says with a shrug. “It’s probably a human, which means werewolf laws don’t apply. The police department will charge him with poaching, trespassing, and injuring a child. He won’t get off lightly.”

“Does the department know that you’re…?” Stiles asks. 

“The sheriff does. He’s one of ours,” Isaac replies, holding the door open for Stiles. Stiles steps into the huge foyer and inhales the smell of home-cooked food and hardwood floor. Pop music drifts down from somewhere on the second floor. “We have an agreement with the department, even if most of them don’t know we’re weres. Such agreements are a necessity for packs this large.” 

They head down the hallway, past a sitting room and what Stiles swears is a movie theater before they reach a set of heavy oak doors. This must be the alpha’s office. Isaac knocks. “Come in,” a voice rumbles, and the two of them step inside. There are three people in the room: the girl from earlier, Laura, leans against the windowsill. A dark haired woman with enough gray at her temples to place her in her mid to late fifties, sits in an armchair in the corner. Finally, there's the alpha of the Hale pack.

Behind the desk sits a man probably only a few years older than Stiles. Stiles can see the tense line of the man’s jaw, even underneath his dark stubble. Broad shoulders shift as the alpha leans forward to examine Stiles. The alpha’s eyes, framed by high cheekbones and dark brows, are as beautiful as they are piercing. He's gorgeous, in a very clearly dangerous way. This is a man who commands power and was not afraid to use it. 

Stiles draws back his shoulders and meets the alpha’s gaze head on. He's no rightened rabbit at a predator’s feet. He's a druid, powerful and threatening in his own right. Stiles has gone toe to toe with things that would give these werewolves nightmares, and he’d survived to tell the tale. Stilinskis did not cower. A flicker of what might be approval flashes through the alpha’s eyes-- or maybe Stiles imagines it-- before he inclines his head toward an empty chair. “Sit. Please.”

  
  


“Alpha,” Isaac intones, as Stiles takes a seat in the chair. Isaac inclines his head deferentially toward the alpha, who gives a barely imperceptible nod in return. 

“Thank you, Isaac.” The lanky wolf gives Stiles one last smile, then leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. “I am Derek Hale, alpha of the Hale pack. This is my mother, Talia Hale, former alpha of the Hale pack. And this is my older sister, Laura Hale.” Derek’s low voice rolls like thunder through Stiles’s ribcage. 

“Hello again,” Laura greets. Now that Stiles was no longer a potential threat to her sister, the woman seemed much friendlier. 

“Nice to meet you all,” Stiles replies. “I’m Stiles Stilinksi. Traveling druid.” Stiles sticks his hand out to shake. Derek stares at it for a moment, before clasping it with a firm grip. His hand is as calloused as Stiles’s own. (Brewing potions and tracking chupacabras through the desert was hard on the palms and apparently, so was being a werewolf). 

“Well met, Stiles,” Derek replies, breaking the handshake. “Laura told me what you did for Cora. You have my sincere thanks and the thanks of my pack.”

“Mine especially,” Talia chimes in. She smiles at Stiles in that warm way that only mothers seem capable of. It reminds him of his own mother for a moment and a pang of sadness throbs in his chest. “A mother never forgets the ones who help her children.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Stiles says simply. “I didn’t do much, honestly. How is Cora? Is she doing okay?”

“She’s well,” Derek replies, drawing Stiles’s gaze back to him. “Our kind heal quickly. The wound will be gone completely by the end of the day tomorrow.” Stiles exhales, relieved. His own assessment had been about the same, but to hear it from another werewolf is a lot more reliable. “I owe you a debt. As an alpha and as a brother. How can I repay you?”

Stiles’s thoughts absolutely do not go anywhere near the gutter. He doesn’t allow them too. Doesn’t think anything at all for several, long seconds. Even if his type is apparently now dark and broody werewolves. “That’s really not necessary. I was happy to help.”

“We cannot let a good deed go unrewarded,” Talia says solemnly. “It’s against our nature as shifters. We always repay our debts.” It was the same thing Isaac said in the forest. All three wolves are staring expectantly at Stiles. 

“If you insist, I guess there is one thing I’d request. I came to Beacon Hills because I was drawn by the magic here. It’s like nothing I’ve encountered before. I was searching for a Nemeton tree when I found your sister. I intend to study it, and this town’s magic. I won’t mess with the tree and I promise I’m not a threat to your pack. I'm just a scholar. I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me free passage across your territory.” 

Derek leans back in his chair, seemingly considering. “A fairly simple request. You saved my sister. You could ask for a much larger boon.” He seems almost… challenging. 

Stiles shakes his head. “I told you, I was happy to do it. I don’t want to extort you for anything. I just want to be able to study the Nemeton.” Derek surveys him for another long moment. 

“Very well, Stiles. You have my permission to cross the Hale lands as you please. So long as you swear no harm to the land and to my pack,” Derek decides.

“I swear it so,” Stiles replies, and knows they can hear the truthfulness of the words his steady heartbeat. 

“I do have one more condition,” Derek adds. “You’ll take one of my betas with you at all times.” Stiles frowned, more perturbed that this stranger didn’t trust him than was probably rational. Interpreting Stiles’s expression, Derek says “It’s for your own protection. It’s rare, but we do have omega wolves wander through on occasion. And those woods…” Derek glanced out the window. “You aren’t the only one drawn to the magic of the Nemeton tree.”

“I agree to your terms, but,” Stiles straightens in his chair. “I promise you, I am well capable of protecting myself.”

“Mr. Stilinski, I don’t doubt it.” 

\---

Isaac is waiting for him outside Derek’s office when Stiles steps into the hall. He grins, well, wolfishly at Stiles. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, druid.” 

“I think you’re the one who’s stuck with me,” Stiles chuckles. “I don’t think you’ll find babysitting me to be very interesting.” They walk down the hall toward the front door and Isaac shrugs.

“It’s this or wandering around the forest on patrols. At least you’re new. So what’d you think of Derek?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder at Derek’s office. “Uh…”

“Don’t worry,” Isaac reassures him, as they stepped outside onto the lawn. “The walls here are all soundproof. Werewolf hearing, and all. There are two couples who live in the main house alone so--”

Stiles holds up his hand to stop Isaac. “Yeah, okay, I get it.” Isaac chuckles good-naturedly, a sound that dies abruptly as they passed a blonde man walking toward the main house. For a moment, the man and Isaac lock eyes. The blonde smirks. Isaac scowls, then blushes. 

“Who was that?” Stiles whispers, amused. 

Isaac scowls. “Jackson Whittemore, another beta. He’s a dick, so just ignore him.” Said dick was apparently still in wolven hearing range and when Stiles turns his head, he sees that Jackson was holding his middle finger up over his shoulder with a grin.

“If you say so,” Stiles says, and smirks. Isaac elbows him and Stiles let the subject drop. For now. The Nemeton tree is only a short walk from there, maybe ten minutes if Stiles had to guess. It's even more beautiful than Stiles remembers from his dream. Moss and vines wind around the trees massive trunk and its branches twisted down to the earth and then up again into the heavens. 

When Stiles reaches out a hand to touch the bark, it glows beneath his fingers. “Hello beautiful,” he whispers.

“Are you talking to the tree?” Isaac whispers back. Stiles casts a look at him and Isaac holds his hands up in mocking apology. 

“I want to take some samples of the bark and the leaves. The soil too. This would also be a great place for moon-soaking oils. Oh!” Stiles exclaims, mind racing with the possibilities. “Even just meditating here…” he hasn’t been this excited since the time he found dragon teeth outside a gas station in Kansas. 

“I’ll just be over here,” Isaac says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Give you and tree some time alone.” Stiles just beams at him. He’s too happy to care about Isaac's sass. 

The next several hours pass quickly for Stiles. After asking the tree if it’s okay to take some leaves and bark (Isaac gives him a weird look, but Stiles just ignores him) Stiles stores the samples in the little leather bags he has stashed in his messenger bag for occasions just like this. He also collects some soil and a handful of the moss that’s growing on the tree too. 

Some of the samples Stiles will analyze magically himself. He’ll send the rest to his friend Lydia, a banshee working in the STEM field who has analyzed all kinds of magical substances for Stiles in the past. Including what Stiles once swore was fairy blood but actually turned out to be a congealed cherry smoothie. Luckily, Lydia dotes on Stiles, albeit with a lot of eye-rolling, and will analyze whatever he sent her way. 

Stiles and Isaac make easy conversation while Stiles works and Stiles finds the other man to be good company. He’s sarcastic as anything and lacks tact, but then so does Stiles. Isaac asks a lot of questions too and although half of them are rude, Stiles can tell he’s actually interested in the answers. By the time they start walking back to the pack house, Stiles feels like he and Isaac might be on their way to becoming friends. ‘A friendship that will fade when you leave Beacon Hills,’ the voice in his head reminds him. Stiles tells it to shut up. 

"So how long has this tree been here?" Stiles asks.

Isaac shrugs. "You'd have to ask Derek. Forever, I'm guessing." Considering how huge the tree is, Isaac is probably right. 

It’s almost dinner time by the time they reach the Hale homestead and Talia Hale emerges on the porch to wave at them as they trek up the grass. “Do you like fettuccine, Stiles?” Stiles can see where this is going-- doesn’t want things to be awkward by ending up in the middle of something as closely knit as a werewolf pack dinner-- and tries to beg off with excuses about how he’s tired and needs to get his samples back to his hotel. 

His plan fails spectacularly when he lets it slip that the only thing he’s eaten today is a bag of trail mix for breakfast. A horrified Talia Hale is hustling him into the kitchen seconds later, telling Isaac to help was the lettuce and shouting upstairs to someone named Malia about moving her backpack off the stairs. The kitchen is bustling with people, filled with busy werewolves and children running underfoot. 

Boyd emerges from somewhere and says something teasing to Isaac, who responds in kind, and a second later they’re both wrestling on the hallway floor. A man who introduces himself only as Boyd’s father hands Stiles a basket of bread rolls and tells him to take them to the dining room. Stiles has no idea where the dining room is but nods obediently. 

Stiles stands at the entryway to the kitchen for a moment, listening to the laughter and conversation, and watching the chaos unfold. It’s a beautiful scene. A home full of love and joy and family. He doesn’t belong here. Stiles knows that. He wouldn’t be able to stay here, even if this was his family.

“Do swifts get tired?” he’d asked his mother all those years ago. Stiles's knuckles go white around the bowl. 

“Stiles?” A voice rumbles behind him. Stiles jolts, almost dropping the rolls. A large, warm hand gentles his wrist. Derek. Seemingly reassured that the bread is stable, Derek lets his hand drop. “Are you alright?” Stiles shakes himself and comes back to the moment. 

“Yes, thank you. I’m supposed to take these to the dining room.”

Derek nods. “Ah.”

Stiles blushes. “Where is the dining room?” Derek laughs, and Gods it’s a good laugh. The best laugh Stiles has ever heard, probably, and he’s heard a lot of laughs. Maybe it’s the novelty of it. Stiles gets the sense that he won’t be treated to that laugh very often. 

“Follow me,” Derek says, and leads him to a dining room as huge as Stiles would expect for a pack of this size. The farmhouse table could easily fit fifteen, maybe more. After setting the rolls down and washing his hands, Stiles somehow finds himself seated next to Derek. He thinks Talia may have done it on purpose. Other members of the pack filter in some time after that. Isaac and Boyd are there, along with Boyd’s father and Erica, Boyd’s mate. Teenage Malia, owner of the backpack on the stairs, grumpily makes her way to the kids' table. Her father, Peter, who is one of the most intimidating people Stiles has ever laid eyes on, gives her a fist bump as she walks by. The shifter Jackson from earlier arrives and sits right next to Isaac, who both flirts with and insults him twice in under a minute, much to Jackson’s amusement.

Laura is the last to arrive, holding the hand of a little girl with a bandaged ankle. Stiles realizes this must be Cora. She’s probably around ten or eleven, younger than Stiles thought she’d be. Her face breaks into a smile when she sees Stiles and she gives a little wave and damn if his heart doesn’t melt just a little bit. 

The food is delicious and the Hale pack keeps up a steady stream of chatter the whole dinner. For as scary as he looks, Peter is actually pretty funny and Talia and Erica politely interrogate Stiles about his life and interests. They want to know everything about druid beliefs, which basically amount to "be nice to all livings things because you might be reincarnated as an apple tree or a slug one day." Isaac even coaxes Stiles to tell a story about the first time he ran into a pixie and feels proud when he gets the whole room laughing. Stiles can’t even be mad at himself for not staying as distant as he’d planned; he’s enjoying himself too much. 

Derek doesn’t talk much, but he listens intently when Stiles does and passes Stiles the water jug when his requests for it can’t be heard over Jackson and Isaac’s bickering. When Stiles asks them if they want his motel room for the night, Peter snorts milk out his nose and Boyd pounds Stiles on the back so hard that he’s pretty sure his ribs creak. 

After dinner-- and pie-- Stiles is in the front hallway putting his jacket back on. The festivities are still going in the living room and Talia had invited him to stay as long as he likes, but Stiles already feels like he’s overstayed his welcome. He’s grateful for their hospitality, but he doesn’t understand it. This time when Derek walks up behind him, Stiles hears him coming. “You walked through the preserve to get here?” Derek asks. Stiles nods.

“I left my Jeep parked in the public reserve lot.” He hadn’t thought about the two hour long hike in the dark that awaited him to get back to the lot. Until now. 

“I’ll drive you to your car,” Derek says. It’s not a request. Stiles figures alpha werewolves aren’t used to _asking_ for things. But Stiles is tired and it’s a kind offer, one he can’t see any strings attached to. And so Stiles gives in. 

“Sure. Thank you, Alpha Hale.” Derek’s car, a black Camaro that’s as sleek and well kept as Derek is, is parked on the driveway behind the house, along with half a dozen other cars. 

“How many people live on the property?” Stiles asks curiously as they approach the car. 

“Twenty six, currently. Eleven in the main house. The entire pack is about forty people, maybe fifty or sixty if you include distant connections.” Stiles’s jaw drops. Not just because that’s the biggest pack he’s ever heard of, but because Derek is holding his car door open for him. Must be an alpha thing.

“Um, thanks,” Still says, clutching his messenger bag for comfort as he stumbles into the passenger seat. Once Derek has climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine, Stiles says “That’s really impressive.” 

Derek shrugs. “The Hale pack has been around for a while. Besides, that’s counting kids. Werewolves tend to have large families.” Stiles nods, and they drive in silence for a while. “Have you met werewolves before?” Derek asks after a few minutes, carefully scanning the road. Looking for deer in the trees, probably. They’re in the midst of mating season, when they’re more likely to come running out in front of cars.

“One,” Stiles replies. “My best friend Scott is a true alpha.” That draws Derek’s gaze and Stiles sees the surprise on his face, true alphas are rare. “He doesn’t know much about werewolves though. He got bitten by an omega in highschool and we kind of had to figure it out ourselves. His girlfriend used to be a hunter, so she taught him a bit, but pack structure and werewolf traditions are still big unknowns to me.” 

“Dating a hunter?” Derek asks faintly. 

“Yeah, it’s a long story,” Stiles chuckles. 

“Maybe you can tell it to me sometimes,” Derek says. Stiles turns his head toward the window so Derek doesn’t see the stupid smile on his face. This little crush of his is starting to get embarrassing. 

A short time later, they arrive at the Reserve parking lot. Stiles’s Jeep is the only car left in the lot and he blessedly doesn’t have any tickets. “Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow. Maybe. Or around. Well, it will probably be at your house. Where you live. Tomorrow. See you then.”

“See you then,” Derek confirms and blessedly doesn’t laugh at him. It doesn’t even look like he _wants_ to laugh at Stiles’s idiocy. Actually, Stiles can’t really tell what Derek wants. He has a feeling that’s going to be a pattern if he sticks around long enough. Not that he’s planning on ‘sticking around’ anywhere.

Stiles drives back to his motel alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief, non-graphic story of past child abuse towards the end of this chapter!

The next morning Stiles calls to check in with Scott. After asking about Allison and the agency, Stiles tells Scott what he’s been up to since the last time they talked. He tells Scott about the Hales and asks if the name is familiar. Scott asks Allison, who immediately grabs the phone. 

“Stiles? How did you get involved with the Hale pack. They're one of the oldest and most powerful packs in North America.” Stiles stares at the shag carpeting of the motel room floor in shock. Allison goes on. “They’ve got a lot of influence. If the alpha owes you a boon for saving his sister, that’s a very valuable thing. Why did you ask for?"

“To study a magic tree in the forest they own?” Stiles says, like it's a question. There’s a silence, then Allison laughs. 

“Oh Stiles, I should have known." She puts him on speakerphone and the three of them spend an hour catching up. When Stiles finishes the call with Scott and Allison he gets dressed and heads for the Nemeton. This time he drives right up the Hale’s private driveway and knocks on the door. After a moment, a smiling Laura Hale answers. Not quite a familiar smile yet, but on it’s way to becoming one. “I’ll get Isaac.”

The day goes even quicker than the last, although Talia sends Isaac out the door with a container of muffins for him and Stiles’s breakfast. Isaac tells him that the poacher who set the trap that snared Cora has been found and dealt with as they head into the preserve. At noon, Talia sends Cora to retrieve Stiles and Isaac for lunch. To Stiles’s relief, the youngest Hale seems to have healed completely and she bounces next to Stiles as he eats his grilled cheese and asks him several dozen questions about magic, which Stiles does his best to answer. 

After lunch, Isaac swaps what he calls ‘Stiles watching duty’ with Erica, Boyd’s mate. The first hour is awkwardly silent, but Erica warms up eventually and by the time Stiles is done for the day they’ve got a rapport going. It’s not the instant connection he had with Isaac, but Erica is intelligent and quick witted and Stiles can talk to her about magic for much longer than he can Isaac, who's eyes start glazing over every times Stiles says the word "meditation." Later,  Stiles gets roped into dinner again and Derek insists on walking him out to his car afterward. Another werewolf ritual Stiles probably doesn’t understand, though if Stiles grins to himself thinking about it as he brushes his teeth later, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

After a week and a half of this, Stiles has a routine. He has breakfast with Talia in the mornings and sometimes Peter or Isaac will eat with them. Stiles lets her talk about strudel recipes or werewolf politics or whatever else she wants to and soaks up the information like a sponge. After breakfast, he and whatever wolf Derek has assigned to watch him that day head out to the Nemeton. It’s mostly Isaac, but he’s spent time with Boyd, Laura, and Erica as well. 

For a few hours, Stiles will lose himself in his work, then one of the kids will come to get him for lunch. After lunch, he'll do more magical research before he tries and fails to get out of dinner. Sometimes half the pack is at the table for dinner. Other times it’s just Stiles and the Hale family. Stiles finds he enjoys both. Every night Derek walks him out to his car and Stiles tells himself he doesn’t care whether Derek does it or not. 

It’s becoming almost worryingly familiar. Then one Thursday Stiles arrives to find Derek waiting for him on the porch. “Isaac is taking Malia to a dentist’s appointment.” Stiles stares at him blankly and Derek awkwardly holds up a picnic basket with a blanket tucked under it. “From my mother.”    
  


Oh,  _ oh.  _ Derek is Stiles’s escort today and that’s… Stiles is definitely not freaking out about it. Besides the first night Derek drove him home and the two-minute walk to Stiles’s car every night, they’ve never spent time alone together. Now Derek wants to spend the whole day with him? ‘Not wants to, ding dong,’ Stiles reminds himself. ‘He’s just keeping an eye on you.’ 

Stiles realizes he’s been staring at the picnic basket in silence and blurts “great. Let’s go.” When they reach the Nemeton, Derek stretches out the blanket and sets out the containers of fruit and pastries and bottles of lemonade inside the basket. Talia’s gone overboard and Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that sending Derek off with a romantic picnic basket was no coincidence. Maybe even Malia and Isaac are in on it and there is no dentist's appointment.  As flattered as Stiles is that Talia would set him up with her son, Stiles knows nothing will ever happen between them. Stiles will be gone in a few weeks, once he’s learned all he can about the Nemeton and Derek is probably not even interested in him anyway. 

After a few minutes of eating quietly, Derek breaks the silence. “So does magic run in your family?” Stiles perks up. If there’s one thing he’s always excited to talk about, it’s magic. 

“Yes, seven generations on my mother’s side,” Stiles says around a mouthful of strawberry. “My mother was incredibly talented with plants. My father always said she could make flowers grow from ash if she tried hard enough. She was much better at potions and brews than I am.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Derek says, then hesitates. Stiles thinks he’s pondering whether or not to mention Stiles’s use of the past tense. 

“It was cancer,” Stiles says quietly. “I was eleven.” There's a pause and then a hand squeezes his knee. Stiles closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Thank you,” he whispers, and the hand withdraws. 

“My father died when I was seventeen. Car accident. My mother was still pregnant with Cora,” Derek confides. “We don’t know each other well, but if you ever want to talk about it…” he lets the offer trail off. Stiles has wondered why he'd never met Derek's father but had never asked. Of all the things he and Derek could have in common, Stiles is sorry it's this.

“Thank you... I appreciate the offer,” Stiles says, and means it. After that, they move onto lighter topics like Stiles’s favorite Shakespeare plays and Derek’s degree in tourism management, of all things. Once Stiles thinks about it, though, it makes sense. The Hales do own thousands of acres worth of trees and wildlife and Derek probably had to take a lot of communication and business classes for his major that now help with running a pack of over forty people.

“So if decoctions and potions aren’t your specialty, what is?” Derek asks. 

“Wards and sigils,” Stiles replies. “Rune magic. Basically, anything that involves drawing or carving a symbol and then channeling magic into it.” Stiles picks at the corner of the blanket nervously. He’d been thinking about this for a few days but had never gotten up the courage to offer. He won’t get a more perfect opportunity than this, however. “I know you have security measures of your own, but I could… ward the pack house and the preserve too. If you’d like.”

Derek scrutinizes him and Stiles turns pink under his gaze, like he always does. “That’s a kind offer. Are you certain? I’m sure protecting that much ground is a lot of effort.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles replies. “I kind of owe your mom for all the food.” Derek actually scoffs at that. Stiles rolls his eyes, “yes, I know, it’s you who owes me blah blah blah. You’ve told me before, sourwolf.” Derek frowns at the sudden nickname, but Stiles is pretty sure it’s an affectionate frown “The wards need to be updated three times a year to be maintained, so they’ll start fading about four months after I leave.”

Derek’s faux-frown suddenly drops into a real one. “And when do you plan to leave?”

Stiles, who has a high emotional intelligence but refuses to use it, hurries to his feet before he can start analyzing the look Derek's face. “Who can say? Well, breakfast is over. Time to map the ley line some more.” Stiles knows he’s avoiding Derek’s question, but he doesn’t know the answer himself and that scares him. “I’ll get started on the wards after lunch!” Derek doesn't say anything about Stiles dodging the question, but he's sure the alpha is thinking it. 

  
  


With the picnic over, Stiles can focus on his research. Stiles just got the lab results from Lydia on Tuesday and they’re fascinating. The magic appears to have altered the very genetic structure of the tree itself. The implications are far ranging, and Stiles spends two hours on the phone with Lydia about it. Stiles’s own magical investigations have confirmed that the power in Beacon Hills is like nothing he’s ever seen before. 

A visit to the archives at the library in town turned up some interesting results. Stiles still needs more time to research and study the magic longer, but his theory is that the unique magical properties of each ley line have somehow fused together, creating a web of extremely powerful, synthesized magic with the Nemeton at the center.  He wonders if there’s a spirit in the tree, that’s somehow become the consciousness of the magic in this town. Of course, that’s just speculation. But Stiles knows he isn’t imaging the familiar, almost affectionate way the magic wraps around him when he steps into the forest. Stiles may never be able to entirely explain what’s happening with the magic in Beacon Hills, but he knows it protects the Hale pack. And he’s starting to think it might protect be protecting him too. 

“Derek?” Stiles asks. Derek glances up from his book. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you know how long this tree has been here?”

Derek frowns thoughtfully. “Fifteen years, perhaps?” Stiles stares at him, then back at the massive Nemeton tree. “I don’t remember anything being here before then. Nothing this big, anyway.

“You’re telling me that this whole tree grew in fifteen years?” Stiles asks. 

“It is magical,” Derek offers with a grin. He stops, listening. “Also, it's lunchtime.”

“What? How do you know?” Stiles asks    
  


“Erica is headed this way,” Derek says simply. Stiles strains his ears but can't hear anything but the rustle of wind through the trees. Derek stands and offers Stiles his hand, pulling the younger man to his feet. 

“How can you tell that it’s Erica?” Stiles asks, and finds himself standing dangerously close to the alpha. His hand is still in Derek’s and Derek either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Somehow Stiles doubts that Derek Hale fails to notice  _ anything.  _

Derek shrugs faintly. “Her stride is unique. Everyone's is. I’ve just been around my betas long enough to recognize their patterns. She’s about a mile away.”

“You can hear footsteps on dirt from that far away?” Stiles breathes, amazed. This is the kind of detail he never got from Scott, who Gods love him, is about as introspective as a cactus. Derek nods. “That’s incredible. What else can you hear?”

“Baby birds in a nest across the clearing,” Derek says, and when he exhales, Stiles can feel the alpha's breath on his cheek. “Hikers eating lunch at the edge of the preserve… maybe five miles from here. Someone just opened a chip bag.” Stiles doesn’t dare laugh, doesn’t dare disturb the strange tension in the air. Even the magic is silent for once. 

“What else?” Stiles asks. He’s barely breathing. 

“Your heartbeat,” Derek confesses. “Beating quickly. Stiles--” Stiles makes himself chuckle and jerks back from Derek. 

“Wow, your wolfy senses really are something else,” Stiles grabs his messenger bag with shaking hands. “We should start walking back now, so Erica doesn’t have to come all the way out here.” Stiles doesn’t think about the fact that if Derek can hear Erica, then Erica can hear the weird moment that just happened between them.  Derek just nods, expression unreadable. Erica doesn’t look at all surprised to see them when they emerge from the trees and even though she side-eyes Stiles, she doesn’t tease him. Not in front of Derek, anyway. To Stiles’s relief and also disappointment, Derek takes his meal in his office and Isaac replaces him as Stiles's guide after lunch. If Isaac is curious about Stiles’s time with the alpha, he doesn’t let on. 

That night, Stiles is quiet during dinner and can only stammer out a weak goodbye when Derek walks him out to his car. Stiles doesn’t let himself look in the rearview mirror as he pulls away down the long driveway. Doesn’t look to see if Derek is still there, watching him go. 

Stiles is early the next morning. If he wants to get the wards put up around the whole property and in the preserve too, he needs to start working soon. It will take at least a week to do and Stiles decided last night that he’s leaving after they’re finished.  Not because he wants to leave, but because he doesn’t. 

But when Stiles arrives at the house, he runs into Malia in the foyer, who wants his opinion on what color dress she should get for sophomore homecoming. Stiles, who isn’t a fashion expert but certainly knows more about clothing than her father or her uncle does, spends twenty minutes in the hallways talking about sequins and mermaid silhouettes. He tries to tell Malia that he needs to get to work on the wards, but somehow finds himself crammed in a car with her, Laura, Laura’s girlfriend Kira, and Erica on the way to a David’s Bridal. 

By the time Stiles gets back to the pack house, it’s almost three. He won’t be able to get much of the wards done today at all, but he can’t bring himself to be upset about it. As out of place as he should have felt in a group of four female shifters shopping for prom dresses, Stiles enjoyed himself. What's more, they seemed to enjoy having him there. He’s getting to know the members of the Hale pack better every day and he likes what he learns. 

Stiles’s happiness must be showing on his face, because Isaac teases him about it as they walk to the edge of the Hale’s portion of the forest. He wants to start by warding the fence between the Hale property and the public preserve and work his way back from there. “What?” Stiles asks, realizing Isaac is smirking at him. 

“Nothing,” Isaac hums. “You just look happy, that’s all.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Well, yeah, I guess I am. Am I not supposed to?” He sets his bag down at the northern side of the fence and presses his palms together. Golden light beams between them, glowing like a firecracker on a summer night as he traces the runes against the fence. They glow there for a moment before the light fades away. Nonetheless, Stiles knows the magic is still there. 

“No, it’s not that,” Isaac says. He’s watching Stiles with wide eyes. Stiles has used magic in front of him before, but nothing this flashy. They walk about five yards down the fence and Stiles starts again. “I just noticed it. You didn’t look happy when we first met, but now you do.”

Stiles frowns, almost messing up the rune he’s drawing. “I had two werewolves growling at me and a kid bleeding from a bear trap wound when we first met. It wasn't exactly a jovial situation.”

“I mean in general. You smelled of unhappiness, like licorice and cherry liqueur.” Isaac wrinkles his nose. “I hate licorice.” Stiles moves onto the third ward. ‘Was I unhappy when I came here?’ He asks himself. He hadn’t thought he was at the time, but apparently Isaac disagrees. 

“Werewolves can smell emotions?” Stiles asks, suddenly terrified of every interaction he’s had with the Hale pack. 

“That’s probably an oversimplification,” Isaac replies. “We only notice the simple ones: anger, lust, sadness, happiness, whatever. And it’s not just the smell. Heart rate, perspiration, microexpression, pheromones… you have to be good at putting those things together to interpret how people are feeling. It’s not just a matter of giving them a sniff.”

“And I smell happy now?” Stiles says quietly. Isaac looks at him appraisingly. 

“You tell me.” After that Stiles works in silence. For almost an hour neither one of them says a word and Stiles just focuses on building the strongest wards he can. The wards will keep out anything with bad intentions and alert Stiles if anything unsavory or at least unexpected makes its way through. Not that he’ll be around to warn anyone in a week anyway, but the gatekeeping part of the wards still be useful after he’s gone. 

By the time they make it halfway down the fence, Stiles is exhausted. He has the beginnings of a headache from focusing so intently and his magical reservoir is running low. Stiles is so busy focusing on drawing a snare ward that will trap any hexes or evil energies passing through it when a hand settles on his shoulder. Immediately, stiffness in his neck and his headache fade away.  Stiles looks at Isaac, at the black lines streaking up the wolf’s arm as he siphons Stiles’s pain away. “You don’t need to do that, man. It’s not like I’m pack.” The words are sour in his mouth. Isaac looks more serious than normal.

“I never told you the story of how I became a member of the Hale pack did I?” Isaac asks. Stiles shakes his head. He knows that Isaac was a bitten and not born shifter and that he lives in one of the other houses on the Hale property. He knows that there’s no other Laheys in the Hale pack and that Isaac never talks much about his life before he was a werewolf.

“I used to have an older brother named Camden. He was my best friend,” Isaac tells Stiles. “He died fighting in Afghanistan when I was thirteen.” 

“Isaac, I’m--”

Isaac stops him. Clearly, the story doesn’t end there. “Camden was always the favorite child. My mom couldn’t handle it when he died. She divorced my father and left the country. I still have no idea where she is or what happened to her. A few months after she left, my dad started abusing me.” Stiles flinches, but Isaac says it steely faced and matter of fact. “He used to lock me in an old freezer for hours at a time.”  Stiles finds Isaac’s hand where it’s resting on his shoulder and squeezes. Isaac forges on. “One day he got really drunk and tried to kill me. I made a break for it. Ran into the preserve and scaled the fence. Collapsed in the middle of the woods, bleeding from the head. Boyd and Jackson found me on a patrol. They took me to the pack doctor and when I told Derek what happened, he promised I could stay here as long as I wanted.”

Isaac wipes a tear from his cheek with the back of the sleeves. “Two days later my dad died in a drunk driving accident. I was two weeks away from being eighteen. I had nothing and no one in the world. That’s when Derek told me about werewolves and offered me the bite. And the rest is history.” Stiles feels Isaac’s hand trembling before he pulls it off of Stiles’s shoulder.  “At first I felt like a stranger here,” Isaac confesses. “But the pack was so kind to me, even that asshole Jackson. I started liking it here. I felt like I belonged and it… scared me. I hadn’t been happy in so long and it felt like a trap. I almost left.”

Stiles can barely breathe. “But?” 

“But I stayed. And I’ve never regretted it. I don’t know what you’re running from, Stiles. I don’t know what’s going on in your head. But we’re friends. So when you're done playing house in Beacon Hills and you run for the hills, don’t fucking tell yourself it's us who drove you off. Because you're wanted here. Got it?” Stiles nods, mutely. 

Isaac turns abruptly and starts walking toward the pack house and a moment later Stiles catches up with him. Guilt, and anger, and empathy roil inside Stiles's chest. “Hey, Isaac?” 

“Yeah?” Isaac asks, clearly trying to compose himself. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Stiles says, and despite the tears on his cheeks, Isaac smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time they reach the house, Isaac is in a much lighter mood. He and Sties laugh and jostle one another as they go in the front door and get scolded by Talia for tracking mud in the house. Isaac stops falters when he sees Jackson sitting on the couch and Stiles may or may not push his friend toward the blonde werewolf. Who’s to say?

Isaac yelps as he tumbles into Jackson and Stiles beats a hasty retreat, fist bumping Cora and Peter on his way out. The two of them are playing Wii bowling and Cora is wiping the floor with Peter. As intense as Peter can be, Stiles has noticed that he dotes endlessly on his daughter and nieces. The last time Stiles went grocery shopping with him, Peter spend fifteen minutes debating which type of ice cream his daughter would like the best. Peter doesn't dote on Derek so much, but Stiles has a feeling it’s got less to do with Peter’s affection and more to do with Derek’s refusal to be doted on.

Dinner is even louder than usual and despite Stiles’s best efforts to be a good guest, he barely says a word. He’s too busy worrying about Isaac and his growing affection for the Hale pack. After eating more food than he ever has in one sitting, which turns out to be the same amount as eleven year old werewolf Cora eats, Stiles just focuses on not collapsing into the gravy pot. It’s been years since he’d expended so much magical energy in mere hours. 

Stiles’s hope that no one else will notice his exhaustion is apparently a futile one, because when he walks toward the front door with Derek, the alpha puts a hand on Stiles’s arm to stop him. “Stay here. You’re too tired to drive.” Stiles raises an eyebrow. Derek clears his throat. “I mean to say that we have a guest room. You could stay here. If you’d like.” He's still not great at asking people to do things, instead of just demanding them, but Stiles can tell he's trying. 

“What, is the big bad alpha worried about me?” Stiles teases. Derek’s eyes are huge and black in the dim hallway. 

“Always,” Derek says simply and Stiles loses his breath. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll stay. Just for the night.” Derek nods jerkily. 

“I’ll show you where the best guest room is and send Laura in with some towels for the morning. The guest room has an ensuite.” Of course it does. The Hale house is practically a castle, it's so big. Stiles follows Derek up the stairs and into the left-wing of the house. Derek stops in front of the second door on the right. “Here it is.”

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers. He doesn’t think any of the werewolves downstairs are listening, but he wouldn’t put it past Jackson. Or Peter. Or Isaac or Erica. Actually, Stiles is pretty sure the whole pack might be listening to them right now. 

Derek nods towards the double doors at the end of the hall. “My room is down there. If you need anything.” Both of them are breathing unsteadily and Stiles makes himself step into the guest bedroom before he does something stupid like invite Derek in. “Goodnight, Derek.” 

“Goodnight, Stiles.” 

Alone, Stiles plugs his phone charger in and brushes his teeth with a still packaged toothbrush and mini-toothpaste he finds in one of the bathroom drawers. The Hale guest suite is more stocked than most hotel rooms are. After that, Stiles tries to stay awake and wait for Laura to bring him the towels. He hopes, as he lies in the ridiculously comfortable bed, that it will be Derek who brings them instead. That he’ll press Stiles into these very sheets and take him apart with those huge, gentle hands and--

When he opens his eyes again, it’s morning. Stiles groans, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. He checks the clock. It’s almost 10:30, meaning he needs to get a move on if he’s going to get as much of the warding done today as he planned on. After a quick shower (the towels are sitting on a chair next to the door, but Stiles has no idea if it was Laura or Derek who put them there and lingering on his dreams from last night when he's in a house full of werewolves who can smell arousal is a horrible idea,) Stiles heads downstairs. 

To his surprise, it’s Derek who’s waiting for him in the kitchen. “Where’s Isaac?” Stiles asks, grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl. He's worried that Isaac's avoiding him after their conversation last night. 

“After you went to bed, he and Jackson spent a good hour bickering with one another. Then they left the living room together. This morning Isaac texted me that he was “sick” and couldn’t go with you.” Derek says with a snort and Stiles beams. He’d only known Isaac and Jackson for two and a half weeks, but it was clear to Stiles that the sexual tension between Isaac and Jackson was a running joke in the Pack.

Stiles was happy for Isaac. As much of a dick as Jackson could be, Stiles saw the way he looked at Isaac when Isaac wasn’t looking. The two of them were made for each other and all Isaac needed was a push. Literally. “Well, I guess you’re stuck on Stiles duty for the rest of the day. I doubt we’ll be seeing Isaac or Jackson anytime soon.”

Derek only gives Stiles the tiniest of smiles. “I can think of worse ways to spend a day.” And he’s right. It isn’t a bad way to spend a day at all. He and Derek make easy conversation-- well, Stiles makes conversation and Derek listens intently and occasionally is coaxed into a comment of his own-- and Stiles makes short work of the other half of the fence before lunch. He’s tired after that, not as tired as yesterday, but tired enough that he needs a break before he can do any magic again. 

Stiles tells Derek as much after a packed lunch of the best burrito Stiles has ever eaten in his life. He’s shocked when Derek tells him that it's Peter who made their lunch today and not Talia. Stiles didn't think Peter was capable of anything other than scheming and looking menacing while scheming. That and playing princess tea party with Cora. 

“So, yeah, I’m not going to pass out or anything but I can’t exactly magic anything else at the moment. I’ll probably just go back to my motel room and come back in a few hours for--” for dinner, he’d been about to say. Stiles hesitates. Staying for dinner at Talia’s insistence when he's already on the Hale’s property is one thing, but showing up specifically for dinner feels like a whole other ballgame. 

“Why don’t you stay?” Derek asks and Stiles blinks owlishly at him. 

“Stay?”

“Yes. You haven’t seen much of Beacon Hills yet, have you?” Derek says it carefully, looking at Stiles like he’s a bomb about to go off. 

“Only the library and the diner off the highway,” Stiles tells him. Derek climbs to his feet and then hauls Stiles to his. 

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” Stiles should say no. He should go back to his motel room and take a nap or do some freelance writing or something before he gets even more invested in this pack than he already is. But Stiles follows Derek to his Camaro anyway.

Beacon Hills is a lot bigger than Stiles thought it was up until this point. There are suburbs and small pockets that seem almost rural in the area around the preserve, but there’s also a decently sized urban area on the edge of the city. Stiles counts at least two-night clubs that he’s going to convince Erica to take him to later. Derek is a good tour guide, even if his commentary is a little dry. He points out Malia’s high school, the local hospital, the Sheriff’s department, and an ice rink which Laura is apparently banned from. Stiles is surprised by this-- Laura doesn’t seem to have much of a rebellious streak-- until he remembers that Peter helped raise her.

“The town bowling alley,” Derek says. “No one is banned from there. Yet.” Stiles chuckles and is rewarded with another rare Derek smile. Two in one day. Stiles is on a winning streak. 

“I can’t remember the last time I went bowling,” Stiles says, sighing fondly. “It must have been in high school. My best friend Scott and I used to go every other weekend. He always wiped the floor with me, and that was before he became a werewolf. I remember that the local bowling club was always trying to recruit him. If he’d joined he’d have been the only member under forty, though.” 

“Did you… want to go?” Derek asks, glancing at the bowling alley in the rearview mirror and slowing down the car a bit. 

“Do you?” Stiles asks. Having Derek walk him to his car or babysit him on the preserve is one thing. But bowling? Bowling feels like a date. 

“I want to spend time with you,” Derek says, earnestly, and Stiles thinks he might die right there in the passenger seat. He pretends to fiddle with his seatbelt so he doesn’t have to look Derek in the eye. 

“Okay,” Stiles squeaks, and then they go bowling. Like everything else Stiles has done with the pack, it’s better than he could ever hope it would be. He and Derek pick up their conversation where they left off in the preserve and Derek annihilates Stiles's score and buys him a basket of cheese fries in apology. when Stiles gets a strike in the last frame, Derek actually hugs him. It's not the best moment of Stiles's life, but it's definitely pushing top ten. 

After they leave the bowling alley, Stiles demands they get ice cream, which Derek insists on paying for. It’s not helping the whole not-a-date-date thing, but Stiles doesn’t argue with him. One thing he did learn from Scott is that werewolves are all about being able to providers for others. He assumes that those instincts are extra strong in an alpha.

By the time they get back to the pack house, there’s no time to do any more warding because the daylight is almost gone. They’re late to dinner and Laura and Isaac hoot when they come in, which makes Stiles blush and Derek sends them a warning glare. But there’s no heat behind the look and the peanut gallery only ‘oohs’ louder. 

Despite their late arrival, there’s still plenty of food on the table and Stiles is coaxed into two glasses of wine by Talia before he remembers that he’s supposed to be driving home. “Talia, I can’t stay here again. I don’t have any spare clothes.”

“You can borrow some of mine,” Isaac offers, grinning deviously. Stiles glares at him. Between him and Talia, Stiles is pretty sure Cupid is out of work. 

“I pay for a motel room for a reason, you know,” Stiles says, taking his bowl of ice cream with him into the living room. The kids are all in bed and only a handful of the pack remains. Stiles drops onto the couch, nudging Boyd’s feet out of the way as he does. “Every night I stay here I’m just wasting my very limited funds.”

“So don’t pay for the hotel room,” Erica says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. “There’s plenty of room here.” Stiles laughs because he’s pretty sure Erica can’t just invite him to live in the Hale's house. But then Talia claps her hands in delight. 

“Wonderful idea, Erica. Stiles, you’re here all day anyway. You might as well stay. It’s not like we don’t have room.” She’s beaming at Stiles and when he looks at Derek, there’s something that looks so painfully close to hope on the Alpha’s face that it takes Stiles’s breath away. 

“I.. I don’t want to inconvenience you," Stiles says. 

"We want you here, don’t we Derek?” Talia says. Stiles thinks he could drown in the look in Derek’s eyes. 

“Stay,” is all Derek says, and Stiles knows him well enough by now to hear the question in his voice. Cora and Malia echo the sentiment (Stiles is pretty sure he dotes on them more than Peter does). Stiles hesitates. He knows that someone will drive him back to the motel if he asks, even if the wine is mostly worn off at this point. But, he's running out of money for the motel. And the bed here is so much more comfortable. And they want him to stay. 

“Just until I’m done with the wards,” Stiles says, and the promise is bitter in his throat. 

The next morning Stiles drives to the motel to check out and pick up his things. He brings Jackson and Boyd with him for the hell of it and they end up going for a joyride on the way back. Maybe the two of them can sense that change makes Stiles uneasy because they act as ridiculous as possible to cheer him up. Jackson sticks the entire upper half of his body out the window and hollers along to the radio while Boyd holds his legs and Stiles tries not to crash the car from laughing so hard. 

He asks Boyd why everyone always seems to be hanging around the pack house during the week and Boyd explains that while the kids go to school and some members of the pack have jobs, Talia offers a generous living stipend to anyone who wants it. “Most everyone works, but a lot of us work remotely or for the pack. Jackson and Laura both help Derek manage the various investments and businesses the Hale family owns.”

Jackson laughs at the look on Stiles’s face. “Did you think several mansions on a plot of land the size of a national park comes cheap? Money has to come from somewhere.” Stiles has to admit, it makes him feel a little less bad about eating all of Talia’s food. Or letting Derek pay for his bowling shoes. "Speaking of money," Jackson says, collapsing back into the car. "What do you say we go shopping?"

"Why?" Stiles asks. "Getting a present for anyone in particular?" 

"Asshole," Jackson grins and Boyd snickers. Stiles takes them shopping anyway.

Just like that, Stiles moves into the pack house. Not much changes in his daily routine, except he can stay up with the pack every night until he’s literally swaying on his feet because he knows his lodgings are right upstairs. Every day, he gets more of the forest and lawn warded, until he only has the main pack house to do. Stiles starts using his magic in other places as well. 

He sews protection sigils into every piece of pack member’s clothing he can get his hands on. Sometimes he draws health runes Talia’s tea with honey while she’s not looking. Stiles slips a pouch of Lavender and Limeflower under Cora’s pillow when she starts having nightmares and cleanses the house with sage after he catches Erica and Malia using a ouija board. 

Stiles spends increasingly more time with Derek, who takes Isaac’s place as Stiles’s guide several times. Not because Isaac is unavailable but just because he wants to see Stiles. They go hiking through the preserve just to take in the view and get milkshakes from the diner and go to matinees at the local theater. Stiles tells himself it’s nothing more than a brief fling and ignores the warmth that’s steadily building in his chest.

Meanwhile, the air gets colder with every passing day as Winter looms over Beacon Hills. The weather won’t get too drastic, this is California after all, but it’s still hard to feel as if things aren’t on the verge of change. 

On the day of Malia’s homecoming dance, Stiles realizes he’s been in Beacon Hills for over a month. He wakes up to a bird perched on the tree outside his guest room window and wonders if it’s a sign when it immediately darts away into the sky. ‘It’s not a swift,’ Stiles reminds himself, but he still stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. 

Stiles is still thinking about it that night when he crams into the foyer with what is pretty close to the whole pack waiting for Malia to come down the stairs. She does, in a sparkly blue dress that Stiles helped her pick out, and everyone applauds. Malia pretends to hate the attention because she’s a teenager, but she lets everyone take a million pictures with her anyway. 

Her date shows up right on time and Stiles almost feels bad for the kid when he sees that there are about twenty people standing in the hallway behind Malia, sizing him up. Peter is holding a knife for some reason and Talia's attempts to make her brother put the weapon away are futile. Stiles watches fondly as Derek gently but very menacingly reminds Malia’s date to have her home by one, and then she’s off. 

Stiles’s heart is so full. He feels like.. Like it’s _his_ little sister going off to the school dance while _his_ family sees her off. ‘How did I let things get this bad?’ Stiles thinks. Despite his attempts to keep a distance, he's become well and truly attached. The rest of the pack slowly filters off outside or into other parts of the house until it’s just Derek and Stiles standing there. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Derek asks. He’s watching Stiles in that way of his. Like there’s no one else in the world but the two of them.

‘I want to go wherever you go,’ Stiles thinks. ‘I want to follow you until the Earth stops spinning and the sun goes cold’. All he says is “sure.” Stiles shivers as they step out into the night air and Derek immediately settles his jacket over Stiles’s shoulders. They walk down the driveway together, a slow stroll under the waning moon. “What did you think of me the first time we met?” Stiles asks when they're out of hearing range from the house. Derek glances at him and seems to think his answer over carefully.

“I was weighing whether you were a threat,” the alpha replies honestly, and Stiles laughs low in his throat. 

“And?” Stiles asks, stopping in the middle of the driveway. “Am I? A threat?” 

Derek reaches up ever so slowly and brushes his palm against Stiles’s cheek. “You’re beautiful.” And then they’re kissing and Stiles forgets everything else. When they break apart, Derek rests his lips in the hollow of Stiles’s throat. “Fuck you smell amazing.”

“Alpha,” Stiles breaths, baring his throat. Derek actually growls. “Take me to bed. Please.” Stiles doesn’t need to say anymore. Derek quite literally sweeps Stiles off his feet and throws him over his shoulder like a fucking Viking. Stiles is too turned on to even care, not even when Derek bursts in the front door and parades Stiles up the stairs past a startled Isaac, who is going to tease Stiles about this until the day he dies. 

Right now all Stiles cares about is Derek. His alpha’s hands are everywhere, and so is his tongue and his teeth. Stiles goes from moaning to gaping to babbling nonsense in record time. At one point, as Derek pressed Stiles’s wrists into the sheets and slams inside him, Stiles is pretty sure he speaks in tongues. In the afterglow, Stiles hums as he cards his fingers through Derek’s ruffled locks. “You smell happy,” Derek mumbles, his arm tossed possessively across Stiles’s stomach. 

“I’m beyond happy,” Stiles laughs. You literally fucked me senseless.” Derek pretends not to preen and Stiles presses a kiss to his sternum. First Isaac and now Derek. “What is it about me smelling happy that’s so surprising to everyone?”

“That first day we met,” Derek says quietly. “You smelled of sadness. Especially in the kitchen. When you were holding the bread rolls. It was strongest then.” Stiles pretends to be suddenly interested in the bedsheets. “What were you thinking about?”

“It’s just… everyone was so happy. So full of love and joy. I was thinking about how I would never have that.” Mały ptak. The swift who was born in the air and died there too. 

“Why can’t you have that?” Derek probes, his face pained and impossibly soft in the moonlight. “Stiles, why do you think you don’t deserve happiness?” 

Stiles shakes his head mutely. “I-- I don’t know. I never expected to get so close to you all. This wasn’t supposed to happen, Derek. Because I can’t… I never stay. I always leave. Because if I go first, then no one can ever leave me again.” Stiles realizes he’s crying and Derek pulls him into an embrace.

“Oh Stiles,” Derek rumbles. “No one is leaving you. We’re not going anywhere.” Stiles cries into Derek’s chest until the sunrise crests, lonely and golden, over the horizon. 

\---

The next day, Stiles finishes putting the wards up. He’s only on the front lawn, so he tells Derek he doesn’t need anyone to watch over him and that he wants some time to himself. When he finishes the last one, he doesn’t tell anyone, just joins Talia in making chocolate chip cookies and packs his suitcase while everyone is busy getting ready for dinner.

Stiles is quieter than usual during dinner. He doesn’t talk much; just listens to the buzz of joy and laughter around him and tries to soak it all in. He wants to take every last moment with him, to hang onto when he’s gone. 

When dinner is over and everyone is busy trying to set up a game of twelve person monopoly, Stiles slips away upstairs and grabs his bags. He makes it out to the car without incident and is just shutting the trunk with misty eyes when a voice behind him says “I didn’t think you were a coward." Derek. Stiles turns towards the alpha, feeling his heart break at the look on Derek’s face. “You were going to leave,” Derek says, and Stiles hates the fear and anger in his voice and hates himself or putting it there. “Without even saying goodbye.”

“I told you, Derek, I never stay anywhere. No matter how much I love it.” Stiles’s voice shakes. “You’re right. I should have said goodbye, but I.. I wanted to end things on a happy note. Because the road always calls to me. And I go. Every time. I never should have gotten this attached.” 

“But you did get attached, Stiles,’ Derek growls. “And so did we. And now you have to live with it.”

“Derek, I--” 

“Is it calling to you now?” Derek demands. “This road?” Stiles opens his mouth, pauses, and then thinks about it. 

“No. It hasn’t been since I drove into town last month. But what if it does one day? What if it happens after I fall in love with you? Because I will Derek. If I stay, I'll fall in love with you.” He gestured towards the house "I already love them." Derek takes a step toward Stiles, then another until he’s cradling Stiles’s face in his hands. 

“Then give me time, Stiles. For us to fall in love. For us to become your pack. Let me show you that you belong here, Mieczysław. Stay.” Stiles's breath catches. He hasn't heard anyone say his true name in years. Stiles has never told it to anyone else before. Not until last night, when he told Derek. Because Stiles trusts him, trusts all of the Hale pack. Enough to give Derek his true name? How could Stiles have been so blind to his own emotions when his actions speak so clearly? 

Stiles looks at Derek, looks beyond him to the worried faces of the pack peering at him through the window and knows there's only one choice he could ever make. “I’ll stay.”

There’s a moment of silence where Stiles and Derek just beam at one another, so full of happiness and possibility and hope for the future. Then through the windowpane, Isaac shouts “Good choice, because I would have just chased your stupid Jeep down the road anyway.” The rest of the pack nods in agreement. 

Stiles can only laugh as he and Derek walk into the pack house together. 


	5. Chapter 5

_**One Year Later** _

Stiles wonders to himself, as he sits in front of the fireplace in the pack house living room, which set of ornaments they should use for the Christmas tree. Talia apparently has five different color schemes, because of course she does. As the new pack emissary, Stiles apparently has the first pick in all decorating choices this year.

Maybe Sites will see if he has any Yule related items at the shop. What good is opening up a magical curios store if he can’t raid it for Christmas tree toppers? Stiles will just have to be careful that he doesn’t grab anything haunted or infused with fire magic by accident. There are quite a few dangerous things in there. Stiles thinks about how all of it was once in a storage locker, or worse, the trunk of his car, and shudders. 

Stiles leans back against Derek’s chest as he considers and smiles when his mate tightens his embrace. Derek says something low and sweet into Stiles's ear, which Stiles doesn't catch over the chattering of the pack around them. The pack house will be even fuller this season because Stiles's father is coming to stay for the Christmas holiday next week and Deaton and Scott are visiting for New Years and Stiles… Stiles is filled with so much love for all of them. His pack. His family. 

Maybe he’ll suggest the blue set of tree ornaments. Blue was his mother’s favorite color, after all. Staring into the fireplace, Stiles is suddenly struck by a memory. 

It was one of the last times Stiles spoke to his mother. When she was hooked up to so many machines that Stiles could barely recognize her underneath the tubes and IVs. He wasn’t allowed to climb in the bed with her anymore because her body was too weak.  Just minutes before, Sheriff John Stilinski had sat his son down and told him that his mother was very sick. Too sick for the doctors to help her. He’d pulled his son out of school that day and drove him to the hospital to say goodbye to his wife in her final hours. To this day, Stiles doesn’t know how his father did it. It must have been the hardest conversation John ever had. Stiles feels a rush of love for his father, remembering it.

Stiles also remembers wrapping his arms around his mother’s stomach, as gently as he could, feeling the weak rasp of her breathing as she smiled at him underneath the oxygen mask. “Hello, my  mały ptak.” And then she’d just held him. 

“Mama,” he’d whispered some time later, when his father was sleeping in the chair beside the bed, clutching his mother’s hand. “Tell me the story about the swifts again. About how they fly forever.”

“Oh, but darling,” his mother had replied, her voice worn away to nothing but a whisper. “They don’t fly forever. Even the strongest swifts have to land eventually. They roost, mały ptak. They build themselves a home and a family and even when they fly again,  _ they never fly alone.” _

Eleven year old Stiles, still trying to be brave, couldn't stop the tears from running down his cheeks. "I don't want you to go, mom. I love you."  


"I know, little bird," she whispered. "But everyone must go in their time. I won't really be gone, just changed." The druidic belief in reincarnation had never been less comforting to Stiles than in the moment. "I will always watch over you mały ptak, until the day you come home."

Claudia Stilinski died in her sleep six hours later, dreaming-- Stiles likes to think-- of flying birds.

“My mate,” Derek's chest rumbles beneath him. “Why are you sad?” Stiles wipes away a tear from his cheek and smiles at the rest of the pack, who are looking at their crying emissary with concern.  The magic of Beacon Hills wraps around Stiles once more, warm and familiar. Stiles wonders if this magic, strange and sentient as it, saw this future coming when it drew Stiles to Beacon Hills all those months ago. Why him? Of all the druids in the world, why had the tree chosen him? 

Stiles thinks of his mother and doesn't dare to hope. 

“I’m not sad,” he tells Derek, smiling. “I’m just taking it all in. My place to roost.” Derek looks confused but contended, and everyone else goes back to laughing and talking and loving each other. And Stiles… Stiles is just happy to be home. 

It’s been a long flight, after all. 


End file.
